Chapter 53 — The Interviews
Drogon spent the entire night in meditation.
He didn't return to Daenerys' shoulder until the interviews were already underway.
He appeared distant and unfocused—though in truth, he simply didn't dare think too much.
Daenerys had no idea where he'd been, and seeing his mood so subdued, she gently stroked his back in comfort.
[Hmph, if you—]
A complaint rose in Drogon's heart, but he cut it off at once, forcing his mind back into stillness.
Daenerys caught a faint flicker of dissatisfaction from him, but before she could follow the thread, his thoughts abruptly went silent again.
Puzzled over who he was annoyed with, she gave him a concerned glance—then refocused on the interviews.
---
The first to step forward was the gaunt old man she had noticed the day before—formerly a tutor in a slaver's household.
Missandei, presiding over the interview, began.
"Which fields are you knowledgeable in? What subjects are you skilled at? Tell us what you taught under your former master."
"N-Not much, Your Grace," the old man—Alata—stammered, overwhelmed by the occasion.
"In the master's home, I taught the children Valyrian and Ghiscari… reading, writing, arithmetic, and… a simple history of Yunkai."
Daren nodded. This was his territory.
"Describe the lessons you usually taught. And show me the arithmetic you used."
Alata recounted his experience as a household teacher.
Daren listened, taking brief notes, and when he finished, gave Missandei a confirming nod—signaling the interview could move on.
---
Drogon, meanwhile, assessed him silently.
[Reading and writing… early primary level. Arithmetic… second grade at best.]
Just as the judgment formed in his mind, Drogon instantly checked Daenerys' reaction—
nothing. She was focused on the man leaving the platform, her expression calm and unchanged.
[She didn't catch that?]
But just as he relaxed, Daenerys' eyes twitched subtly in his direction—only a glance, but enough to make Drogon uneasy.
[I thought she missed it… did she catch something after all?]
Confused, he pushed the worry down and decided to continue observing.
---
The next candidate was a healer.
Beyond colds, fevers, and basic bandaging, he admitted he could do little.
[A rural clinic doctor at best.]
Drogon formed his assessment while carefully watching Daenerys' expression, trying to map what she could and could not hear from him.
---
Then came a middle-aged man in a linen robe, black hair tied back, a wooden board under one arm and a long satchel slung over his back.
Everyone else looked puzzled by his appearance and equipment—
but Drogon knew instantly what he was.
An artist.
After introducing himself as Huntley, he began unpacking his tools: various goose-quill brushes, small jars of colored ink, custom-cut parchment sheets, and clamps to secure them to the board.
Once everything was prepared, he lifted his gaze to study Daenerys—his subject.
Realizing he intended to sketch her portrait, Daenerys straightened immediately, smoothing her clothes and stealing a glance at Missandei.
Only after Missandei gave a subtle nod did she allow herself a polite smile, ready for Huntley to begin.
Drogon could not resist.
[Well, well—looks like you won't need a bronze mirror anymore. Now you can stare at yourself to your heart's content.]
"Excuse me?!"
Daenerys' eyes shot wide, her smile vanishing in an instant.
Missandei's startled look reminded her they were not alone, and Daenerys forced the expression back into place—
though the stiffness around her jaw betrayed her displeasure.
Seeing Daenerys' exaggerated reaction, Drogon instantly understood—
and couldn't help savoring a tiny flicker of revenge-fueled satisfaction.
---
Ten minutes passed.
Then fifteen.
Then twenty.
Huntley was still painting.
Everyone present was beginning to grow restless, though none dared show the slightest hint of impatience.
Daenerys, having never served as a model before, found her smile stiffening little by little.
She worried she might be delaying the entire assessment.
But Huntley remained calm and focused, switching quills with practiced ease, adjusting colors, refining delicate lines—completely unbothered by the pressure in the room.
Finally, after another twenty minutes, he set his brush aside.
Daenerys exhaled in relief.
Huntley rose to his feet, holding up the finished portrait.
"Wow…"
Missandei gasped aloud.
Jorah and the others didn't make a sound—but their eyes widened, jaws loosened, and expressions froze in astonishment.
Daenerys herself felt as though she was seeing her own face clearly for the first time.
In the painting, she wore pale blue.
Her silver hair was braided and draped behind her, with two strands falling down over her chest.
Her features were serene yet noble—her smile soft, yet carrying a touch of regal command.
Was this truly her?
Instinctively, Daenerys reached up and brushed her cheek with her fingers.
She tried to recall Drogon's description of her that one time…
Queenly aura?
Was this what he meant by that?
The thought flustered her.
She glanced sideways at her fellow interviewers—every one of them still staring, entranced.
None looked as though they were faking it.
[Master level—without question.]
Drogon was genuinely impressed.
He wasn't an expert in painting, but even so, he could tell—this wasn't merely good for this world.
Even back in his former life, Huntley would have been considered a professional-grade artist.
To think such talent hid in a place like Yunkai…
---
"Your Majesty," Huntley said, bowing slightly,
"please accept this portrait as my gift to you."
Daenerys hesitated.
"I imagine this work must be extremely valuable. Such a gift… would be too much. Allow me to purchase it instead."
Huntley shook his head, voice sincere.
"Without Your Majesty's regal bearing, I could never have created this portrait.
It is only right that it belongs to you."
Seeing his resolve, Daenerys no longer insisted.
She certainly could not allow a portrait of herself to circulate freely in the world.
With a grateful nod, she gestured for Missandei to take the painting for safekeeping.
Missandei handled it carefully, though she looked uncertain.
She glanced at the others, seeking confirmation of Huntley's skill.
Ser Barristan stepped forward.
"In my years at King's Landing, I have seen many works of art.
Huntley's brushwork stands among the finest on the continent."
Both Jorah and Daren nodded in agreement—aristocrats all, their judgment carried weight.
Missandei wrote down her evaluation, thanked Huntley once more, and dismissed him so the next candidate could enter.
---
Afterward, interviewees came in a steady stream—farmers, carpenters, blacksmiths, musicians…
but those truly skilled in governance, history, or language remained few and far between.
When the day finally ended, Drogon had pieced together the answer to the question that tormented him:
why Daenerys could sometimes hear his thoughts.
He had only himself to blame.
Years of isolation in his past life had left him with a terrible habit—
talking to himself internally.
As a dragon without a voice, he could no longer distinguish between silent thinking and internal muttering.
After extensive self-testing, he realized:
Daenerys wasn't reading his mind.
She was only catching his moments of inward "self-chatter."
Once he understood this, Drogon relaxed.
As long as he restrained his internal monologue, none of his secrets would slip out.
But restraining it… was easier said than done.
He had meditated atop a tree branch for two nights, surrounded by darkness and starlight.
There, with nothing to provoke him, silence came easily.
But the moment he returned to crowds, to chaos, to irritation—
the urge to comment, to complain, to quip—
burst forth like instinct.
[Ugh… this cursed habit.]
Drogon sighed inwardly.
All he could do was try—try to keep that troublesome inner mouth shut.